


And if all the lights are down

by Claire_Fucking_Dearing



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Anxiety, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of cutting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:18:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire_Fucking_Dearing/pseuds/Claire_Fucking_Dearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hate the word 'survivor. '<br/>Because 'survivor' means that I've made it out. </p><p>And I don't think that all of me did."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surviving

**Author's Note:**

> For Tasha-Romanof on tumblr. My user is Claire-Fucking-Dearing.

Survival is such a strong word. For Claire, survival is something she needs, a closure, and for Owen, survival is living off of food and water and breathing.  
And they need that. 

-o-

But sometimes, sometimes, survival isn't enough. Not for them, anyway. 

 

Sometimes Owen slides down onto the shower floor. He puts his head on his knees and cries. Blames himself for Delta's death, and Charlie's and Echo's. He grabbed a razor blade once, held it for along time. His knuckles were white and scathed. Claire came in to check on him and pulled it away, prying his fingers from the death grip he donned. She looked at him for a long time, sadly. He began to apologize. She kissed him, softly, and sat in the shower with him. "We're surviving," she whispered to him, over and over again. He just wished that he could believe her. 

 

Sometimes, Claire's thoughts pull her so far away, that all she can do is stare. One of those times, she grasped her glassware so hard that is shattered between her palms, bloody and red and scarred with a dull memory of vivid dreams. Left the linoleum floor covered in water and blood covered glass. She doesn't feel a thing until later, when Owen cleans up the mess and dabs her wounds with a antiseptic and wet cloth. 

 

They don't need to ask anymore. 

They heal each other. They survive.

 

-o-

 

They are broken, but they live. Day by day. 

 

Owen gets a job at a construction site. He hates it, but he can't become attached. Not again. 

Claire goes to college, working to become a nurse. She needs to work with people, not just numbers on a sheet. She can't become detached, not again. 

They come home to each other at night. They kiss. But their dreams are still silhouettes and blood night terrors. 

And all she has left. 

-o-

 

Claire sometimes feels like she's known Owen longer than she has. 

Tragedy tends to do that to a person. 

She and Owen feel close. Claire feels closer, too. Closer to life and living.

She doesn't need to take as many pills to feel human anymore. 

 

Smiling feels less and less like a foreign thing. Her face no longer threatens to turn into a grimace every time she tries to laugh. Her lips feel less downset. Owen says that her smile lights up his whole world. 

She believes him.

 

-o-

They don't really talk about what has happened. It's too fresh, too delicate, a horror story replaying in their minds. 

She can still smell the gasoline from that truck on him. Sometimes. 

 

He can still hear the desperation in her voice when she told them to run. It plays over and over in his head, like an ongoing cassette tape. 

They both see teeth every time they close their eyes. 

-o-

Survival. They are barely surviving, Owen thinks. Claire thinks that they have just begun. 

It's many things. They're many things. But they are still; miraculously; breathing. 

They're more than living. 

They're surviving.


	2. Incarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of my witches brew, sweeties!

"I hate when people say 'survivor'.  

  Because 'Survivor' means that I've made it out.

**And I don't think all of me did"**

 

                      /|\

 

_Your hands protect the flames from the wild winds around you / You put up your defenses when you leave / you leave because your certain of who you want to be / this is how it feels to take a fall._

_-'Incarus' **by Bastille**_

 

_/|\_

 

 

_Inhale._

_The sound of heels slapping down on pavement._

_Exhale._

_The defying roar of the I-Rex, a mouthful of razor sharp teeth, a pool of blood._

_Claire stares up at the silhouette of her worst nightmare. The Indominus claimed his ground with Zara, poor girl. And he was gonna claim it again with Claire._

 

_They say that life seems to slow when your dying. And as Claire  is engulfed by a mouthful of darkness and teeth, she sees something._

_Gray's smile._

_Karen's laugh._

_Zach's smirk._

_All of the small things she thought would never matter._

_And Owen._

_His face, his cocky personality, even his damn board shorts._

_They say that life seems to slow down when your dying. And for Claire, they did. The I-Rex screamed._

 

 

Claire bolted up in bed. Trembling, she lifted the comforter up and rolled of the bed with a dull thud. Shaking and sweating, Claire stumbled blindly around until she reached the bathroom. Turning the shower on to full blast. Climbing in the tub, fully clothed, and placing her head in her hands. Claire sat in the cold stream of water and screamed. 

 

/|\

 

 

She's broken. 

 

She tells herself this everyday, every week, every time her therapist says, "Your doing so much better, Claire!"

How is she suppose to believe people she doesn't even trust? 

 

 

/|\

 

"Your a survivor, Claire. " Everyone tells her. "Your a hero. "

 

Claire wants to scream. To kill the person for calling her a hero. A survivor. Hell, she barely made it out alive. 

A hero means that she aids something heroic. 

 

A survivor means that she made it out. 

 

Claire thinks that she left part of herself behind. 

 

 

/|\

 

Sometimes Claire needs to let go. Owen sees to that. Sometimes it's rough and heated, like they may not see tomorrow. Sometimes it's passionate and slow.

But it's all for the same reason. Claire and Owen don't use sex as a tool; they use it as closure. To live. To escape. To breathe. 

 

 

/|\

 

She left a whole life back at Isla Nublar. She came in a determined, organized, business woman. She came out a broken, lifeless soul. A doll of sunsets and silhouette dreams. 

 

They all have lights. Bright, lively lights in their hearts. Brave lights. Unafraid lights. Lights that are not afraid to go to sleep, not worried to wake up to episodes of heated hearts ands desperate bodies. 

Hearts of nobel, free warriors. 

But thy have to earn their lights.  

And Claire is already there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts very welcome!


	3. That One Blue Buton-Up Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Text
> 
> That One Blue Button-Up Shirt  
> I’M BAAACK!! Sorry about the post block… i started school a day ago, and had a load of homework already. Anyway… This one-shot is for my buddy Matthew! Hi Matt! (Can I call you Matt?)
> 
> Also, hello and thankyou to Kelly, who was super pumped about me writing Scott x Hope   
> (Ant-Man). I will be posting an Ant-Man fic for you soon!!
> 
> AAAAND HERE IT IS. Watch out, guys, Its gonna be intence. *picks up pencil*

That One Blue Button-Up Shirt  
I’M BAAACK!! Sorry about the post block… i started school a day ago, and had a load of homework already. Anyway… This one-shot is for my buddy Matthew! Hi Matt! (Can I call you Matt?)

Also, hello and thankyou to Kelly, who was super pumped about me writing Scott x Hope  
(Ant-Man). I will be posting an Ant-Man fic for you soon!!

Claire sighed.

This was the third time, the third damn time, that she had tried to call Owen, who was out doing..god knows what right now. He said he would be back, he promised, as late as two days.

He said that a month ago.

Claire tried again. After a round of little rings, Owen’s answering machine beeped. She hung up. Why even bother leave a message? Not like he would listen to it.

Not like he would call her back.

Right?

 

Claire gave up after that. She got up, turned on the furnace fan, and got into the shower. Letting the scalding water run down her broken body. Letting the world slip by.  


About 45 minutes later, Claire Dearing got out of the shower and dried herself off. She went into the bedroom, wearing only leggings and her undergarments. Digging into the hamper, she pulled out the same shirt that she was wearing the night before.

A blue button-up shirt, made of cotton and fibers she didn’t care about.

Owen’s blue button-up shirt, to be exact. Owen’s unwashed blue button-up shirt, that smelled like dirt and oil and strawberries and Owen. That smelled like home.

 

Claire put the shirt on and crawled into bed, burrowing a whooping pile of plankets, sheets, and comforters.  
She just wasn’t warm without Owen. She didn’t feel safe, like a crab with out a shell. Like a pack of wolves without their alpha.

Just like Owen, just like Blue.

She closed her eyes, unaware.

Only to be woken up 3 hours later, because of a loud crash in the other room.

Claire shook and spasmed as the light in the kitchen turned on. She was too scared to move. Too scared to breathe.  
And if Owen was here, she would probably take her outdated dictionary and smashed it on the intruders head.  
But he’s not, he’s gone, and she’s here, trembling and staring at the door.

Just as the knob on the door started to turn.

She could run, excape through the window. Their knob was one that you had to twist and twist until your hand felt like it was gonna fall off. She definitely had time.

But, no, Claire shook and trembled and spasmed and cried like a baby, silently chanting ‘Thisistheendthisistheend’ like a matra and she can’t seem to stop as the door creeks and opens slowly, oh so slowly, and creeks some more.

And Owen stands in the doorway, covered in dirt and soot and bearing an arm wrapped in gauze and an impressive turquinet.

 

“Claire?” He whispers.

Claire just shakes and sobbs, clutching the end of the blue button-up shirt like it is the last thing she would ever touch. It might have been.

Owen walks over to her. He smiles when he sees his blue shirt on Claire. It looks good on her, he thinks.  
Sliding into the bed next to her, he gathered her into his arms and held her.

“Shhh.. It’s ok, Claire, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Owen.”

Claire’s arm spasmed and she pulled away from him.  
“O..Owen?” She trembled.

“Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

Claire reached over and took his calloused hands in her soft, shaking ones. “What happened? Wha…What took you so long, Owen? You– you promised.”

“I know, Darlin’. But I’m here now. And I’m sorry,” He said, brushing off the question with a fake small smile.

“You promised,” Claire whispered again.

“And you look amazing in that shirt.”

Claire blushed. Owen smirked and kissed her.

Soon they were laying in bed, sleep dawdling up on them.  
Claire was snuggled up against Owen, only one blanket covering them.

Just before sleep overcame her, she heard Owen mumble somthing into her ear, barely audible, but there.

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> How did you like it? Send me some feedback!


End file.
